


A Word

by Discreet



Category: Worm - Wildbow
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-22
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2018-11-03 14:38:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 11,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10969299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Discreet/pseuds/Discreet
Summary: My father stands at the doorway, his hands are laced together and they contract with each breath, pulsing like a heart. "Taylor," he says, forgetting my name, "There's someone here to see you."





	1. Begin

I write this diary not as penance (which would suggest regret) nor to reflect (which would suggest unawareness), but because I am destined to do so. More than any sort of desire, need or base compulsion, I write because I cannot fathom a reality in which I do not. I write because this is who I am.

There are many beginnings to my story. The first occurs thirteen years prior, another at four, one at two, two at one and the last just yesterday. Each informs the other the context, without which there can be no understanding, but to progress through the story simply chronologically is to dilute the connection. Despite how we progress through it, one does not experience time linearly. Point of fact, this diary.

 

My father stands at the doorway, his hands are laced together and they contract with each breath, pulsing like a heart. "Taylor," he says, forgetting my name, "There's someone here to see you."

A woman steps into the room, iron-tipped boots tapping the floor with surprising lightness. There is a grace to her, an elegance that belies lethality, like a panther prowling through the jungle. She stops by my desk and raises a hand, her eyes crinkling as she smiles behind her scarf-turned-mask.

"Nice to meet you, Wordsmith," Miss Militia says.

It is only then that I look up from my pen and paper, although neither goes unused even as I speak, "What?"

The "what" carries many meanings - it is a versatile word, one that I enjoy to employ. Although in this instance, it curls with distaste, the tilt of the "t" biting. What do you want, I ask.

Miss Militia flinches, her smile and crinkles are gone. Her breath catches, a tiny gasp as her body works through a kick of adrenaline. That tiny utterance is enough for me to fill in the gaps: she realizes I have used my power on her. There is a glow of green as her weapon tries to shift forms, but she forces it back, keeps it as just a knife in the loop of her belt. As harmless as she can make it and yet more than lethal enough.

"I'd appreciate it if-"

"Can't," I cut her off, her words are so horribly inefficient. Mine on the other hand, are perfect, not simply in meaning, but intonation and enunciation. The definition of the word is important (can't: unable, unwilling, impossible) but that is something tacked on after the fact. The word is at its core, a sound and a sound can be many things, happy, sad or angry. A sound has a personality that distinguishes a "can't" from resignation to refusal. In this case, it is both.

"You can't-"

"Yes," I cut in again, annoyance leaking into the word. A pointless affirmation, but it shuts her up.

She stares, contemplating. I do not mind so long as she is silent. I turn back to my pen and paper. They have not stopped once, my hands capable of writing endlessly with or without my attention. But I like to see. I like to read the words as they flow.

 

It is nighttime, I am in my bed and my mother sits besides me, a full-grown woman on a chair meant for little girls and dolls. I remember her muttering to my father the need to get a stool, but I do not think she really minds. It is another level of closeness at the price of only a slight discomfort.

She holds a book with both pictures and words. She expects me to prefer the pictures filled with fanciful colors, but I surprise her. It is the words that draw me in, the curve of a "g", the precision of an "i", the surprise of an "r" and the thickening of an "l". The letters are not printed, they come from my mother's hands. I am too young to read, but I understand that it is here the world exists.

"The girl has had enough! She shouts at the monster 'Go away! Go away, monster! I'm not afraid of you! I've had enough!'"

I say the words along with my mother and together we drive the monster off. She laughs as she turns the page.

 

I am on a rooftop with a girl, her teeth are chattering and for once it is a truly meaningless sound. It is simply cold and she has not worn enough, only a cardigan over her blouse and skirt. I am no paragon of fashion, but it seems trite the way only a mother-dressed-child can be.

"Seventy-one point two-three percent," the girl says.

I squint at her. The spoken numbers are perplexing and not in the way that numbers usually are. There is something else at play.

"What?" I ask.

"Seventy point seven-eight. It keeps changing," the girl frowns and she puts a hand to her forehead, rubbing at it painfully, "And if I tell you..."

I frown, the words are laden with emotion, the apprehension, the uncertainty and most of all the fear. But the meaning eludes me. It is the first time my power has failed me. I do not vocalize this nor do I repeat my question. I could force her to answer, but then that would spoil the surprise. Having to analyze her words in earnest is actually quite novel.

"It changes based on how I say it," the girl mutters to herself.

The feedback from the sentence is immediate and more plentiful than any of her others. Infinitely more informative than those accursed numbers. She shouldn't be here. Knows she shouldn't. This is worse for her. How, I can't say for sure, but it is. She risked herself to speak to me because she felt she had to.

"Sixty-five point forty-two percent," she bites her lip, "Not good enough."

She will tell me what the numbers mean soon. I am beginning to enjoy this. To not know what words mean again. To need it explained. Oh, how I had forgotten the thrill of a conversation.

"Sixty-one point fifty-one. fifty-nine point twelve."

She clutches her head and her words are strained. She wants to puke, but she can't stop now.

"Fifty-four point two. Fif-fifty-four point eh-" She gasps and drops to her knees. "Fifty-five-"

She stops abruptly and looks up at me.

I smile, this is the part where she explains.

"You," she says hoarsely. And then she collapses, unconscious, blood flowing from her nostrils.

Me?

Ah.

It's me.

The beginning of the end.


	2. Escape

“We would like-”

“No,” I say, interrupting Miss Militia yet again. She is growing annoyed, though she hides it well. There is even a resignation to her words, she knows that this is going nowhere, but she is a dutiful soldier, she will try nonetheless. I consider telling her to leave, but I quickly dispel the thought. Much as it pains me, I must continue to be diplomatic.

She nearly sighs, a very near thing, an exhalation that she pulls back to normal at the last second. The restraint is important, but the slip is moreso. She is giving up, she will make one more token attempt then she will finally leave me alone. Wordlessly, Miss Militia reaches into a pocket and pulls out a brochure, like an advert you would expect to see in the dentist’s office. A picture dominates the front as they usually do, but at the top it reads “The Wards.” The print is soulless and I cannot help but feel as though she has just presented me with a cadaver.

It is with that disgust that I repeat myself, “No.”

 

We are at a park because I have refused to go to a library or a bookstore. My father does not understand why. Those are the places he goes to when he thinks of words, but for me they are mausoleums, the dusty tombs for the dead. Whenever I try to explain, he freezes, eyes vacant. He can hear the sounds, can even glimpse the implication, but there is no real comprehension.

He talks of the weather, of work, he talks to talk, to distract himself from his fears and to fill my knowing silence. He frustrates me and I can not - would not - tell him how. I love him too much. I will have to leave soon.

 

Hands wrap around my neck, but before they can squeeze I speak.

“Down,” I say and down Sophia goes like an anchor dropped. She is on her hands and knees, prostrating herself before me. I consider her for a moment, a flimsy moment of temptation, but in the end it is more trouble than it is worth. I step over her, ignore the whimpering of Emma and Madison in the corner and reach down to pick up my mother’s book.

It is ruined. The pages have been torn to shreds. Half of it lies on the floor in scraps, the other half hangs from the binding like strewn guts. I swallow the nausea back. There will be no replacing it, but then I think to myself, that isn’t what she would have wanted.

 

The sun shines brightly overhead and as always, I am writing. It is a timeless moment. Whether I am at my desk or in the park or on a rooftop with a girl or standing with the mob on a oil rig, I am writing. I am always writing.

On the oil rig, of the group nearest to me, a man made of metal watches me warily. I do not need to hear him speak to know he dislikes me, nobody here likes me. The standoffish posture, the sidelong glances, the gestures are almost like words themselves. Almost, almost, almost. I cannot divine his true intentions unless he says something.

Instead the metal man's partner - a symbiote that has latched onto him with her tentacles - speaks up. "What's _she_ doing here?"

Parasitic, I revise in my head. She depends on him to exist, if not physically than emotionally.

The metal man does not respond. He knows better than that.

 

The blare of the sirens interrupt my thoughts. Not because the sound is loud and grating (it is), but because I know what it means. I run outside and am nearly overrun by the tide of people. They have sprung from every building and street, all clamoring to get out.

I am weak, I will be swallowed. I must yell.

"Clear!"

The crowd parts in biblical fashion, people falling over themselves to get out of my way. Unimpeded I run down an open lane in the press of bodies. It is not enough, I will not be able to reach my father in time.

A voice reaches me, faint. It is far away, but I trace it to its source. A blonde girl in a white costume flies in the sky. She is called Glory Girl and she is speaking rapidly into a cellphone.

She does not notice me, too preoccupied with her own worries. I yell for her.

"Come!"

The phone slips from her fingers and she turns around mid-air. She swoops down and lifts me up in her arms. Her face twists, contorts in ways I do not understand. She cannot speak.

"Go," I say and she does.

 

The cold creeps through the walls, snow has collected on the windowsill. I am writing.

The door bursts open and armored men flood inside. Guns are aimed at me, some more lethal than others.

"Wordsmith," Dragon says, her words come from speakers and the distortions nag at me, "Please."

It's an unnecessary request. If she wants to take me, she can. She has only brought agents and her auditory senses have been muted. She is merely being polite, she insists on it as if this absolves her.

I stand and the room tenses, fingers itching to squeeze triggers. I raise my hands and let the pen fall.


	3. Descend

Paper covers the walls and litters the floor until there is nothing left but white and ink. There is only one area clear of any paper: my desk and chair. On the ground there are trails, little valleys leading from the chair, one to the kitchen, one to the bathroom and the faintest, to the front door.

Dinah makes no comment on the state of the place or my sedentary lifestyle. She rubs at her nose, breaking off the last piece of crusted blood. Though she doesn't say so, I imagine she understands how I live. She crosses the room, a little unsteady on her feet, the sickness still affecting her.

Nonetheless she gestures to the chair stoically and politely asks, "May I?"

"Please," I say.

Dinah drops into the seat, elbows banging against the desk to keep her upright. She is exhausted so I head to the kitchen to find something for her to drink. I consider putting the kettle on for tea, but I do not take Dinah for a tea drinker. She would prefer something sweeter. I check the fridge - a remnant from the previous tenant - and it rattles nervously when I open it. The offerings are meager, a carton of expired milk (also from the previous tenant), a half-empty can of soda (a forgotten whim) and thirty pounds of military-grade rations. I would have to restock soon.  
I take the soda can and bring it out to Dinah. She is mumbling numbers under her breath and she jumps as I set the soda down.

“Ah!” She gasps, eyes wide. Fear, I conclude, nothing so strong as terror and not so abstract as dread. She has a cautious fear as one would when crossing a long rickety bridge. Critically I do not understand the ‘why’, but then that’s what makes Dinah so interesting. As reassuringly as I can, I smile and gesture to the soda can.

She picks up on my meaning. Hesitantly, she takes the can, sniffs it and then finally sips. Her face twists as she swallows and a small "ugh" leaves her lips.

She doesn't like it which is unfortunate, but the important thing is that I offered. I hop onto the desk and sit with my legs dangling off.

"Answers," I implore her.

"Answers," she repeats disbelieving.

I smile. She will give me what I want one way or the other.

“Okay,” she says, relenting, “Ask.”

“When?” I ask. When will I finish my story?

She shakes her head. “Rephrase.” My question is too vague. She needs a goal to aim for.

“Year?”

“Forty-nine point thirty-three.”

I frown. Less than a fifty percent chance I would finish writing in a year and yet I had done nothing else since my commitment. It was a disappointing number to hear.  
“Two?” I ask, hopefully.

Dinah shakes her head, “It doesn’t change much.”

I lean back, digesting that sentence. Dinah is resigned, the time doesn't matter. Finishing my story isn't a matter of "when", but "if".

 

My father sets his fork down, the metal clinking against the plate.

"Are you sure, Taylor?" He asks.

I squirm in my seat, I had anticipated this, knew he would disapprove, but I'm still unprepared for the unspoken disappointment. The table between us feels too big, like a chasm and I shrink a little as I mumble, "Yeah."

He stares at me, but I can't bear to meet his gaze, my eyes fixed on my knees. Is he angry? Sad? I don't want to know.

His chair scrapes against the floor and I wince. He's getting up, coming around the table. I don't look up, just watch out of the corner of my eye.

He comes to my side, crouches down and pulls me into a hug.

"It's alright, Taylor," he says softly and a wave of relief sweeps over me. He hugs me a little tighter. "I get it. It's better if you stay with Emma. She's your best friend, right?"

I laugh a little, but it comes out choked because my throat is tight. I'm going to cry which is strange because this is what I wanted. "Yeah," I hug my father back, "She is."

"That's good," my father murmurs, "Cherish that. Don't waste it."

I nod vigorously, my chin bouncing against his shoulder.

"Winslow's not that bad," he says, "I know you'll be great wherever you are."

 

The air is thick with mist, the scattered remains of a giant wave. Eidolon, hero of heroes floats above the coast holding back the ocean.

My house is not far off, people still crowd the streets trying to find shelter. Their desperation is beginning to crescendo, the mist like a drug driving them into a frenzy. I can hear them cry out, for mothers, for fathers.

"Closer," I whisper to Glory Girl and cling a little tighter as we fly over the masses.

The voices are a whirlpool of fear and madness. It's hard not to get sucked in as I listen for any hint of "Danny" or "Hebert". There's nobody but me who would call him "dad".

As we soar past the crowd, the first twang of panic resonates through me. I can't find him.

Do I go on to check at home or do I head to the nearest shelter to find him? Before I can decide, a cry intrudes on my thoughts.

"Victoria!"

I blink, for a moment I am stunned. The voice so unlike my own but matching my thoughts nearly perfectly. It snatches Glory Girl's attention as well and she turns to look.

"Oh, thank god," a girl - Laserdream says as she flies closer, "You're alright. When you hung up like that I thought - "

Glory Girl's eyes suddenly snap wide open. "Crystal! Get -"

"Calm," I say and they stop, their voices fading. A half-lidded look comes over both of them and we float over the city silently. For a moment, I hesitate. Things are becoming complicated.

A boom rumbles out in the distance, the air vibrating from the shockwave. A massive cloud of mist erupts from the coastline, the shavings of an even larger wave that has struck the city. I can no longer see Eidolon through the watery haze. Instead there is a large green shadow in the midst of it all.

Leviathan.

Things are becoming _very_ complicated.


	4. Disaster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be aware I am releasing all of the remaining chapters to this story at once. Take care not to miss the rest.

A wave crashes against the side of a building, spraying upward into a wall of water.

Glory Girl raises a fist and we plow through it. Laserdream is not far behind. And tailing her is the rest of New Wave.

Lady Photon, Shielder, Manpower, Brandish and Flashbang. Glory Girl dives to the right, turning the corner just in time to avoid a building that has half-fallen onto another across the street.

My grip around Glory Girl is iron-tight. If I slip even a little, I know I'll be thrown off, sent hurtling into the depths below. It's difficult to write like this - Glory Girl's back makes for a poor replacement to paper - but I persist.

We take another corner sharply, nearly colliding with a skyscraper as we veer off to the right. New Wave takes the turn even tighter, Shielder throwing up a bubble for his family to launch themselves off in a perpendicular angle, shaving a few extra milliseconds off and closing the distance between us that much more.

We’re not much farther to the shelter. The one closest to my home, the address which my father drilled into my head. Though we never talked of the Endbringers, he made sure I knew what to do. If he is anywhere he must be there.

But New Wave is gaining. They’re better fliers, more experienced, familiar with all the shortcuts, better at adapting with the sudden changes in the environment. Inch by inch, they are catching up to us. They will do so before we reach the shelter.

I look over Glory Girl’s shoulder and I see Lady Photon soaring after us, her arms are full with her sister, Brandish. Glory Girl’s mother. The lines of her face is etched with fury. I can practically hear the huff of her breath, the bloodlust waiting to be unleashed.

Soon, I am going to have to speak to them.

 

"Oh hey," the clerk says, a note of surprise in his voice. He is thirty years old and his hairline is already receding. The absence draws the eye no matter how long he lets the hair on the back of his head grow out. His name is Eli and he remembers me.

"Haven't see you in a while," he says as casually as he can. The statement belies a slew of questions and curiosities he has built up in his head. I am the most exciting thing to walk through the door in months.

I don't respond, heading to the back of the grocery store where they keep the tea. I fit as many as I can into my basket and bring it back to the front.

Eli smiles knowingly as I begin to deposit the boxes on the counter.

"Guess, you like tea, huh?" He chuckles as he starts to ring me up.

I stare at him and he smiles as if this is an ordinary response. I do not like Eli, but I prefer him to his father. Eli's father might recognize me, he was much more pressing with his questions the first time I came into the store. Eli on the other hand is enamored.

He takes my silence as meekness, my lack of reaction as damage, and my avoidance of his father as choice for him. He sees a broken doll in me, one that only he can repair.

"Alright, your total comes to thirty-five, thirty-nine." Again, that smile. Patriarchal. Superior.

I want to speak. To tell him, I'm neither broken nor a doll. That I'm only holding back for his sake and everyone else in this forsaken, forgotten little town. The less I say, the better it will be for everyone. I do not want to invite trouble, I only want to write.

I set a pair of twenty dollar bills down on the counter. Eli takes it and as he does, his eyes are drawn momentarily downward to the movement of the hand at my side.

He cannot resist asking. "Still writing?"

The question pricks at me. Patronizing, pitying, mocking. I do not answer, not even a nod of the head.

Eli frowns and for once he picks up on my displeasure. He finishes collecting my change and bagging my tea and hands it over. I reach over the counter to take it all with my free hand and for a moment our hands brush.

"You'll hurt yourself if you keep that up," he says quietly.

I yank my hand back, the bags clunking awkwardly against the counter. The jolt makes Eli flinch back, he throws boths hands up as if I have him at gunpoint.

"Sorry, sorry," he says, "Sorry, I just..."

I don't wait for him to finish. I hurry to the exit, my long-dry pen pressing harder into my thigh.

 

I recognize him by his shirt. Light-blue fading to white. He always had difficulty finding shirts. Hard to find a size that fit his frame. If it matched his height, then it would extend too far around the gut. If it matched his waist, then the sleeves would come up short around his elbows. And getting a tailor for a fitted shirt was more expense than it was worth. After all he had at least one good shirt that fit him just right.

Waterlogged, the shirt clings to him in parts and scrunches in others, little pockets of air. He had gotten it at the thrift store, a spot of luck, another man with a similar build as him had given it away. Sometimes I wonder about this mystery man. Was the shirt a mistaken purchase or was he really as tall and gangly as my father?

Could he have been my father's doppelganger? Could this body floating face-down in the water be him?

I wade my way forward. The water lapping at my knees, thick with dirt, debris and blood. The shelter has collapsed in on itself and all around are the remains of the occupants. It is not as messy as I would have thought. Everything has been watered down. There are only the floating bodies and a pinkish hue to the water.

I reach his body, bump into it, the arm brushing against my thigh as a small wave carries it. Unconsciously, I take the hand, but it's cold.

It's better if I don't see it. I could close my eyes and tell Glory Girl to take it away. The heroine in white hovers behind me alongside the rest of her family. They float over the water as expressionless as statues, ready to do whatever I ask.

But it has to be me who does this. I grab the body’s shoulder and turn it around.

It's him. Of course it's him.

My head falls back, tears slicing my cheeks and I scream.


	5. Query

We come to a bench and my father guides me to take a seat. I do not mind, nor does it slow me down. I continue to write. My father eyes me, but does not say anything.

Despite all appearances, I am not compelled to write. Others look at me strangely, taking me as deranged or damaged, but that is not the case. I write because there are things that need to be written. There are words and ideas that if one does not put to paper then they will disappear forever. How many thoughts do we lose each day? Each hour, minute or second? There is a universe's worth of tales in every person, wondrous stories that no one will ever hear or know because they were never preserved.

How much of humanity do we lose when we don't write?

Want has nothing to do with writing, although I admit that there are times when I enjoy it. It can be a process akin to therapy or a confessional. An outlet of all the emotions and worries that plague me.

"You're quiet, today," my father says, but he's wrong. It pains me to hear him so wrong.

He doesn't realize that the words are overflowing my mind. That I can only catch the dregs of the unending waterfall. I write and write, but it is only a fraction of what is truly there. My father does not realize how I am shouting.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" he says, ignorant. He stares at the setting sun and gives my shoulder a squeeze. He is trying to be reassuring, to be confident for my sake. He is failing. He is terrified.

My pen presses through the notepad with too much force, the page tears and the sound startles my father. His hand on my shoulder tightens into a desperate clutch as he whips around to look at my writing. But I have already torn the page out to begin anew.

As I press on, I have a realization that - for an instant - hinders my handwriting. I bite my lip. I will have to explain my error to smooth out the inconsistency, an added layer of difficulty to an already difficult task.

Gradually, the hand around my shoulder relaxes and my father turns back to the sunset as if nothing had happened at all. Again a pang of discomfort rides through me, but this time I am prepared. I do not flinch. My father is afraid of me.

And as my hand moves down the page, the ink running thin, I begin to believe he should be.

 

I storm out of the grocery store, ignoring the shouted apologies of Eli. He had gotten to me, I had enough awareness to realize it. How? Eli was a nobody, a footnote of a footnote in the grand scheme of things.

And yet he had cracked my facade. Was I that fragile? Did it take only a little misplaced pity for me to veer off course? I grit my teeth and hiss, the pen has broken skin, I can feel the sting of blood. Annoying. I'll have to cancel my trip to the military surplus store.

I start to make for home when I spot a girl coming out of the bank. She looks ordinary enough, twelve or thirteen with straight brown hair. Normally, I would think nothing of her and walk on, but it is her eyes that stop me. She is looking at me.

"Eighty-seven point fifty-four," she says under her breath, quiet enough that she thinks I cannot hear.

I stop in my tracks. The numbers arresting me. What did they mean? For once, I don't know.

She walks a little closer and this time when she speaks it's meant for me. "Can we talk?"

My heartbeat accelerates wildly. This girl knows who I am. But as I pick over her word choice, I realize she's not here to collect the bounty or even for revenge. She wants something else. I press the words harder, squeezing them for every detail possible. I recall the parting of her lips, the collected tone, the gentle lilt of the question, anything, anything at all that I can pick apart.

But nothing emerges from the depths. I swallow. I don't know what she wants.

"Please," I reply finally. Let's talk.

 

The pen clatters to the floor. It is a simple sound, one produced by chance. Even I can't control how the pen falls.

Dragon and the PRT agents tense at the motion, but it's harmless enough. Simply gravity taking effect.

I open my mouth, but no sound comes out. The word requires some forethought, more than I usually use. What do I stress? What do I let my tongue roll over?

"There's no one here who can hear you, Wordsmith," Dragon says placatingly, as gentle as her metallic speakers will allow her, "You don't have to run anymore. We can get you the help you need."

I ignore her and continue putting the word together. It’s harder than I thought. I had already considered the word before, but putting it into practice? There was an added dimension to the actual act that no manner of preparation could hope to match.

"I don't know what you're trying to say, Wordsmith," Dragon takes a step forward, metal boot clunking against wood, "But if you're surrendering, just hold your hands out and let us take you away."

My eyes flick to the left. A black-suited agent is pulling out a pair of cuffs - oversized iron mitts - as well as a muzzle.

"I'm sorry," Dragon says, "But we can't take the risk."

I smile in response. I had it. The last-minute adjustments were in place and now the word is perfectly formed in my mind, loaded like a gun.

The cuff-wielding agent takes a step forward. And I say it.

Dragon doesn't react. No one in the room does. No one here realizes what I'm saying. The content of the word is so loaded with meaning that even if they could hear it, it would seem like gibberish.

In fact, there is only a single entity equipped to understand the word.

I cannot see him, cannot hear him, but I know he is listening. He’s always listening. A necessary skill when there were so many people in need, so many people calling for help. He could be anywhere at all and he would still hear me.

I've never spoken like this before.

The room begins to glow, golden light growing from the windows. Dragon swivels, raises her gun, but it's too late. A hand pushes against the glass and it folds away, like crumpled tissue.

Scion steps into the room and looks at me, eyes wide.

I ask my question again.

_Destination?_


	6. Scheme

"Best?" I ask the girl.

"Best," Dinah says, nodding her head. Her nose drips blood.

I brush the papers on my desk aside and pull my legs up onto the table with the rest of me. I regard the girl sitting beneath me. Her eyes are focused in on me like a pair of lasers. Is this how she shows her sincerity? Does she think I need the encouragement? She should know that I could not care less about what other people think of me. They already call me a monster.

No, what I had to be careful of was being used. The girl’s agenda is only tangentially related to mine. She wants to save the world, but I only need it to last long enough to finish making my own.

I ask her for the number one more time.

“Forty-eight point sixty-eight.”

Worse than a coin-flip. But better than last time. For every moment that goes on, the idea crystallizes in my mind.

I examine Dinah again. The precocious little brat. There was no doubt that she is just playing out the steps necessary for me to move as she needs me. But for now, our goals align. This is what she needs and this is how I get what I want.

I hop off the desk and give my response to Dinah.

“OK.”

I’ll start the end of the world.

 

The last of the portal doors slide closed. The assembly of capes, hero and villain is impressive not in number, but in weight. Heavy-hitters and oddities, all of them. I recognize a few - String Theory, Legend, Eidolon - but most are just flashy costumes to me. The powers-that-be are aiming for breadth, launch the assault with a wide enough variety of powers and hopefully Scion won't be able to react to them all. I was no strategist, but it seemed simplistic. Throw whatever you had at the Golden Man and see what stuck.

Stupid. A waste of my time, but then it wasn't like I had a choice.

"You ready?" Dragon asks. She stands a good ten feet from me, but her voice comes in scratchy through my earbud. I look to her, she wears a scaly green suit of steel that reminds me of one of my favorite stories as a child. Gawain and the Green Knight. A very good story.

"Is something funny about this?" Dragon asks, annoyed.

Still smiling, I shake my head like an obedient little lamb.

Her helm shifts, directing its gaze to me. The angle of the visor, the tilt of the head, it's as close as Dragon can get to a glare without actually showing her face. I let my smile drop. Better to not push too hard. My work is still incomplete.

Dragon lifts her gaze, mollified. "One more minute," she says matter-of-factly, "And then you'll start us off."

An unnecessary reminder, I know my role. I am to be the introduction as well as the epilogue. Prelude to the stick and then after the assault, offer the carrot.

Not that it will work. Nothing I say will get Scion's attention now. He is long past compromise.

I still remember his scream.

 

Pain.

It is an uncomplicated thought. Instinctual. If you stab me, I will cry out, it is that simple. The difference between that and this is scale.

Scion howls. The pain etched into the wailing sound, unending for someone who doesn't need to breathe. The PRT agents nearest stagger, the very vibrations in the air forcing them back.

And for me who can understand him, I am down on my hands and knees wracked with pain. It crackles over me like an electric current setting my every nerve aflame. My body is lost to the sensation, it seems entirely out of place. Like my body has been stolen from me and I am only observing the pain from far, far away.

Scion rises up in the air, fists clenched. A pair of tears cut down his cheeks, gleaming against his golden skin, but there's no beauty in it, there's too much ugliness in his expression. He's still howling, still trying to verbalize a pain that doesn't fit in one dimension alone.

And then the screaming stops. For a moment, there is a silence, an end to the torrential flood of pain. I look up to find him, but I only see a hole in the wall, just large enough for someone to dive through. Cut so cleanly it looks sculpted.

The clap of a sonic boom strikes me first and then the whole building explodes.

My body is far, far away. A worthless husk of meat. It is pelted by chunks of brick and stone, the mere proximity of the primitive shrapnel enough to tear out flesh. My body is being torn apart, put through the blender. This was supposed to be my best chance?

My vision darkens and the awareness of my body disappears entirely. I'm left with only the muffled sounds of the world being shredded.

I land with a splat, but I'm not crushed. In fact, the fall is almost comfortable. There's still nothing for me to see, it's as though I'm wrapped in a big fluffy blanket.

"Get me a first-aid kit!" A voice yells. Dragon's. Her flesh and blood voice. It sounds so much nicer than the synthetic one.

"As soon as I get her out of the foam," Dragon goes on, "We're going to have to treat her."

"You're fucking kidding me." A man replies hoarsely.

As I lose consciousness, I hear Dragon's grim determination. "We need her."


	7. Crossroad

The story is very nearly done, I just need to survive long enough to see it through.

Dragon puts a metal hand on my shoulder - tender for what is effectively an anvil with fingers - and steers me toward the portal door that leads to an open grassy field. There's a warped metal cone placed at the head of the portal. A tinkertech device with knobs and buttons lining the side. Honestly, it seems unnecessary for what is essentially an oversized megaphone.

Maybe they think the volume will catch his attention? It's silly. It's as if they've forgotten that he can hear everything. Has heard everything that's ever been said on this planet.

No point in fighting Dragon, though. She brings me to the megaphone.

"Fifteen seconds," Dragon says.

I nod dutifully and glance down at my prepared speech as written out by the best Thinkers available. That must have been a fun conversation, "what do we say to the genocidal alien-god to get it to stop killing us?" I wish I could have sit in on that brainstorming session.

As it is, the contents of the speech are trite. As paint-by-the-numbers as you can get with the written word. It's an inevitability in community projects. Without any singular voice to lead, the speech becomes a muddled mess of compromise and soulless platitudes. There's a bit about humanity's values and worth alongside a completely unsubtle threat of humanity's capacity for destruction. Another section espouses humanity's fortitude, their capability to weather whatever Scion unleashes. And so on and so on, it's wholly unimpressive, I could've written something better in my sleep.

Dragon's grip on my shoulder tightens. I'm all too aware of the gaze of everyone on the oil rig. It's time for me to open the show.

Within the portal, another portal opens, this one extending out to an ocean. Distantly I can make out a golden light.

I make my translation:

"Please."

The singular word booms out over the Atlantic, crystal clear as if it was the voice of God and for a moment, the golden man stops.

Then he raises a hand and a beam of light shoots out. I see only a twinkle before the portals snap shut.

"Negotiations over," a voice calls over the radio - a man's, one I don't recognize, but it carries authority. "Group One. You're up."

Capes rush into action while Dragon leads me away. The battle begins.

 

I stare at the tombstone silently. I can condense novels into a single word, but here nothing seems to fit.

Dawn will break soon, and the groundskeeper will be out to make his rounds. I’ve met him a few times in the past. Older fellow, stooped back, always wearing a worn-out baseball cap. I used to wonder if he had family in the cemetery and that was why he took the job. I never did ask, father said it would be rude.

I bow my head. I can already feel a prickling at my eyes. Was this what I was reduced to? One stray thought and I’d collapse into a boiling mess? I bite my lip and hold back the sob as best I can. I know that as soon as I start, it won’t stop. I’ll collapse and then the groundskeeper really will find me. Maybe he would try to soothe me or maybe he would recognize me. Either way, it would draw attention that I didn’t need. Now was simply not the time.

I compose myself. I came here for a reason. My fists tighten, one curling into a ball, the other clutching the pen till it hurts. The tombstone waits patiently.  
It's well-kept, even after everything that's happened. Leviathan's attacks hadn't reached this far. I wouldn't know what to do if it had.

There was nothing left to tie me here. To Brockton Bay or to anything really. The city is dead, the streets flooded, the buildings toppled, thousands killed. Victoria and her family intrudes into my thoughts, but it doesn’t matter anymore. Nothing matters. Even this grave, modest and clean, is just dirt and bones. Meaningless physical things. Distractions from what I should be doing.

But a part of me still needs to say goodbye. To dad, to the woman buried in this grave. Here is where I would put it all behind me.

My mouth opens.

And no sound comes out.

I stare blankly at the tombstone and there's nothing in my head. Nothing at all. I don't even breathe.

"Hey!" A voice shouts - the groundskeeper, "Who's there?"

My stupor breaks. I don't spare the old man a second glance, I turn and run.

 

Something is wrong. I can hear it in their cries. A pair of capes stagger out of a portal, collapsing onto the oil rig, but no one moves to help them, everyone has their hands full. Dragon takes a hold of me by the collar of my neck and directs me away like a mother shielding the eyes of her child.

Most of the yelling is nonsensical, uncontrolled bouts of pain or fear, but amidst the cacophony, a voice snatches my attention. The authoritative man who ordered this foolhardy operation to commence.

"What do you mean you don't know where he is!"

Scion gone after wiping out the last three groups. Panic, fear. Plan is falling apart.

I look over my shoulder, my neck stiffened by the gauntlet wrapped around it. I mouth my words.

Leave.

"Please don't say anything, Wordsmith," Dragon says, sounding tired, "Now is not the time."

I purse my lips, not that Dragon would know. I realize that she can't see my face, something like pixelization or a black-bar censoring. Not only is it wholly unnecessary (my power does not work that way), I can't help but feel insulted.

And there is also the fact that it is about to get us killed.

"Fine! Damnit,” the man-in-charge says, “Just get us some portals out of here, we need to regr..."

The words fade like a man flung from a plane.

I look up.

Scion. Hovering in the eye of the sun, perfectly camouflaged except for the flecks of blood staining his bodysuit.

His face contorts, teeth gnashing as if he is chewing an invisible chunk of meat. I can hear the grinding of his perfect teeth, marble against marble.

Others start to take notice, following the gaze of their more super-aware peers. They crane their heads, gawping like fish waiting for feed.

Scion raises his hands and a orb of golden light - a second sun - starts to form.

Dragon yanks me into her arms.

"Door!" She shouts, "Door now!"

Nothing opens. Other capes take up the cry, but there is no response.

Dragon wastes no more time, she bursts into flight, thrusters flaring on her back as she races toward the edge of the oil rig. She keeps low and as she flies, she scoops up a pair of wounded capes, squeezes me into them with one curl of her arm.

Scion lets the miniature sun drop.

Dragon snags another trio of capes before she can carry no more. I recognize none of them, we are squished together so tightly it's hard to breathe.

I can only watch as the golden bomb descends on the oil rig, incinerating the unfortunate capes not quick enough to get away.

The assault is over.

I think of the message I am supposed to give Scion after all fourteen groups had made their attack. Not much hope for that plan, but now is as good a time as any, I suppose.

"Sorry."

Scion looks up. He's too far for me to see, but I know he's looking at me. His mouth opens, I can hear him breathe.

And then his mouth snaps shut, Eidolon punches him out of the sky. Scion crashes into the water with a thunderclap. Scion isn't down for long, he rises up out of the ocean, his face etched with fury. And then the two titans clash.


	8. Engage

The spring air cools my skin, wicking away the sweat that had been worked up. Finally, some peace and quiet. I sit beneath a tree, hunching over the notebook, my pen scribbling furiously. Despite the flood of words pouring out of me, I feel a calm. A soothing quiet where the only sound is the scratching of my pen. It's been too long since I actually had a pen and paper.

Below me is a camp, wide canvas tents thrown up but with little activity. There's not a lot of people who can move around right now and I'm far enough away that I don't have to deal with the groaning and moaning. But the people are an afterthought, my restrictions have been lifted, Dragon is better spent not babysitting me.

I turn a page so rapidly it tears down the middle. I flatten it with a sweep of my hand and continue writing on the back-side. The tear makes my pen skip, but otherwise I do not slow. Dragon’s watchful eye made writing a limping quick-sand process where every word had to be forced out a fraction at a time. Now that I was out from under her thumb, I had to make up for all the lost time. I had to get all the ideas actually down in the physical world.

I'm nearly there. Just a little longer and I would be at the ending. I don't know how exactly, but I can feel it. The climax. The mystery, the build-up, it's all been leading to this.

The ink starts to run dry, the words coming out faded. I could press on anyway - the ink along with the pen and paper have never been necessary - but for these last few pages, the story should be done proper. I spare the moment to pull out another pen, fresh and full and resume writing.

Nearly there. I bite my lip, tingling with excitement.

Below in the camp, an alarm wails.

I ignore it. I just need a little longer.

 

"Hey!" I throw myself onto my mom's lap, my chin bouncing on her knee. "Whatcha doing?"

Mom takes a second to finish her thought, dotting the paper with her pen one more time before answering. "I'm writing, sweetie.”

"Oh! Let me see!" Before she can say anything, I clamber on top of her and my mom yelps with a laugh.

"You little monkey!"

I squirm my way onto her lap and her desk lays splayed out before my fingertips. I immediately reach for a paper and hold it up. I squint to make out the words. Start from the top left and then sound it out...

"Tuh... Zuh... The!" I look up at mom and she's beaming at me. A quiet pride radiates off her and some of it rubs off on me. I turn back to the paper, bouncing a little as I try to read the next word.

"Guhhhrrlll... girl. The girl!"

"Yup!" Mom confirms with a pat on my head.

I grin at her and turn back to the page. Word by word, I read her story. Some of the longer words are a struggle, but with a few hints from my mom, I work out their meaning.

It is the story of a simple peasant girl who comes upon a fleeing princess. Chasing after the princess is a great red dragon who wants to steal her as she is “the jewel of the kingdom”. Knowing only that the princess is in danger, the peasant girl swaps clothes with the princess to take her place. It’s enough to fool the dragon and it snatches up the peasant girl. Returning to its lair, the dragon places the girl in an iron cage as the centerpiece of its collection. Having fooled the dragon, the peasant girl tries to tell the dragon that she’s not really the princess, but the dragon refuses to believe her. Left with no other choice, the girl starts to plot an escape, but on the night of her plan…

The words stop. I flip through the pages again, did I skip a page? I look up to my mom, confusion clear on my face.

“Sorry, sweetie,” Mom smiles, “It’s not done yet.”

“But you know how it ends, right?” I plead.

“Mmm, I have an idea.” She runs a hand through my hair. “But wouldn’t you rather find out when I finish the story properly?”

I look back to the paper, the black ink painting a gorgeous world of fantasy and heroines. It takes everything for me to not beg, to scrounge for the scraps of half-finished ideas. I set the paper down and take a deep breath.

“I can wait,” I say.

“I thought you might.” My mom kisses my forehead. “I’ll just have to make sure it’s worth the wait.”

 

Fiery explosions ripple below the hill, each successive blast larger than the last. It’s a signal for the rest of the attack. Rays of ice, fire and psychedelic colors shoot into the flames. The beams go wide, unfocused, dozens of capes aiming off of memory, supernatural senses or just plain guesses. Anything to buy themselves some time. The rest of the camp is still scrambling to gather the wounded and evacuate.

A gleam appears in the depth of an inferno and the more foolhardy aim their attacks there. The smarter ones put up barriers. A golden laser lances through the front-line, low, slicing through knees of any unprepared capes. They go down, their howls of pain oddly synchronous as if they were one mind.

Scion steps out of the flame, his white bodysuit wicked clean of any ash or blood. No longer howling, his expression is dour, a small frown on his face as if the dozen capes facing him down are only an annoyance. A red-costumed man leaps forward and drives a fist into Scion’s face with a resounding thunderclap, but there’s no shockwave beyond that. The air around Scion and the red-costumed man vibrates like a mirage and then in the next moment, there’s only Scion and chunks of red splattered around him.

Many of the defending capes lose their nerve, flying or running off, but three remain steadfast. What compels them to stay, I wonder. Is it duty? There are still a few injured who haven't evacuated yet. Or is it revenge? Willing to throw away their lives on the off-chance that they can hurt him.

They charge Scion and one-by-one, they die. He continues on, their corpses not even making his step skip. He passes into the camp's main tent and the screaming magnifies, but the golden light flashes once, twice and then there's only the crackle of flames.

My pen runs off the paper, out of space, but doesn't stop. My hand dips and curls with each letter, writing into nothing but air. The words leave no mark on this world, but the letters are affixed firmly in my mind. Just a little more. Just a little more and I would be done.

Scion steps out of the tent, his head turning left, then right. There's no one left, everyone either dead or gone. Just me, forgotten. He knows this, his act of looking around as meaningless as everything else he does.

He looks up, his gaze ascending the hill until it reaches me. All done for dramatic effect. Does he expect me to gasp? I bite my lip and quicken my pen.

He rises upward, floating, but otherwise motionless. His cape flutters with the wind, the heat from the flames kicking up a storm. He floats toward me, his face strains against the skin.

"What?" I ask, not looking up.

His mouth opens.


	9. Words

The memories come rapid-fire, stitched together like a home video edited by an epileptic. A family. Parents lifting their girl as she hops step to step like she's on the moon. A girl in her bed wide awake as her mother reads fairy tales. A father whistling as he manages sizzling pancakes, bacon and eggs, the daughter drools with anticipation.

_Whole._

A phone rings, goes up to the father's ear and then after a second, drops. The book falls with a sickly splat, its pages torn and wet. The water clings to the girl's thighs, her father’s hand as cold as ice

 _Shattered_.

Leviathan wades back into the sea at a leisurely pace. A swagger if it knew such a thing. Emma laughs, loud and vile, her fingers thick with crumpled paper. My father grasps my hand, trying to force the pen still and for a moment I want to kill him.

 _Rage_.

Scion extends a hand and a light starts to build in his palm. Tears flow down his face unhindered, he barely seems aware of them. His teeth are clenched tight.

 _Respond_.

I don't look up from my writing. The resurfacing memories were distracting enough. What does he want me to say? Sorry for your loss? I understand? My pen darts and loops with unyielding rapidity. I am very nearly at the conclusion.

The light in Scion's hand magnifies.

 _Respond_.

Everything that has a beginning has an end. The question then is how to end it? Every page, line, word and letter has built to these final moments. To rush through the end, to carelessly slap it together would make everything that came before hollow. Afterall if a story leads nowhere, then what was even the point?

The world blurs around me. One instant Scion hovers before me, the next he has me by the throat, the orb of light thrust nearly into my face, it is blindingly bright, whether my eyes are open or closed it makes no difference.

" _Respond_ ," Scion says, his voice remarkably clear.

"Wait," I choke the word out.

The hand loosens and he lets me hang. He says nothing, only stares.

How many words do I have left? A hundred? A thousand? Ten thousand? The ending needs to be organic. I can't force a conclusion where it doesn't belong. I need to buy just a little more time.

Shaking, I raise my hand. The pen looping, twisting. Scion looks at it, uncomprehending.

Although I had written my story with no intention of anyone ever reading it, if there is anyone who can, it is Scion. His eyes widen as his perception shifts, absorbing details that only he can. Past, present and future are meaningless to him. The dip and dab of my fingers over the course of years stretch out before him, he can see the motions, knows how they move to form lines - curves - letters - words. He is reading my story.

A feeling bubbles inside of me, one that I never expected: Gratitude.

Scion. This golden man. This alien traveling through dimensions and light years to reach this place. I am grateful for him. The fact that he never cared for us or that he only ever acted out of hopelessness or that he had already killed billions. None of it matters.

Other thoughts surface: Will he like my story? Can he even? If not, will he kill me? I find myself caring very little either way.

I am just happy that someone is reading my story.

My pen stops. I'm finished.


	10. End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be aware that I have released the entirety of this story at once. Make sure you've read the previous chapters first.

There is a blissful clarity as I watch the golden man fly off. He speeds off into the cosmos, a streak of light turning into a distant star. For the first time in a while, I feel like I can truly see what is happening. The golden light, the roar of the wind, the dying embers in the grass, all of it feeds directly to my brain, no longer having to detour around a jumble of words.

The clarity lasts only a moment. I squint my eyes and bow my head. The world is a little too bright, the hill too windy and the heat lingers uncomfortably from the former flames. I turn my head looking for... anything. Something. What was I even doing here? I had committed myself wholly to the act of writing, but after that what else was there?

I had never really thought about it.

There's a crashing sound, long drawn-out like the death throes of an animal, the last of the tents from the camp below collapses. Everyone here has either fled or died. I start to head down the hill for no reason other than there doesn't seem to be anything else around.

The smell of ash is thick in the air. The tents have been reduced to blackened husks and the blood wetting the grass gleams fresh. I come across a body, a woman in a tattered red-and-white costume, her domino mask lies askew, one eye peering from underneath it, the other a sunken mess of blood.

There is a dim awareness that this is my fault. My fault that I first provoked Scion, my fault that he had even come to this camp and ultimately my fault that this woman died.

I should feel guilty - a fly lands on the corpse's lips - but I don't. What do I feel? I look at my hands, my pen hand so strange to see still. There was satisfaction when Scion read my story, but now there's nothing.

I had given up everything for this moment. So why did it feel so empty?

 

"Watch me," my mom says. She presses the marker against the paper, the motions slow and deliberate. The letters much larger than what the book's usually have. "Did you get that?" She asks, "Did you see how my hand moved?"

I nod, head bowed over a scrap of paper. My tongue pressed between my lips, I mimic her motions.

"Good, good," my mom smiles, coming around the table to sit side-by-side with me, "Let's give it one more try, though. See this one." She points to the paper, at one of the letters, "That's the 'R'. Your’s is facing the wrong way so let's flip it around." She reaches over my paper and demonstrates, "Like this."

I look down at the 'R'. Smooth, properly curved, elegant next to my shaky letters. My marker hovers over the paper, suddenly incapable. There was no way I could write as pretty as that. I might as well not even try. I-

My mom wraps her arms around me, her chin resting on my head. She doesn't say anything, but she hums. A gentle vibration emanates from her, warmth like I’m wrapped up in a blanket. My marker steadies and I try again. This time making sure to get the 'R' facing the right way.

"Good! That's it." My mom beams, planting a kiss atop my head. "Now, do you remember what it means?"

"Uh," is all I have to say.

She laughs, "It's your name, silly. It says 'Taylor'."

 

I recognize Dinah by her voice, young and still developing, but there’s a melody to it. I never realized how nice it sounded before.

“Can I ask what you wrote?”

Her lips are small and creamy-colored, they move minimally as if not to disturb. She watches me carefully from her seat. The room is bare, a stark white, the only color coming from the metal table between us. I wouldn’t call us alone, though. Though there are no cameras or windows, I can hear in her words a display for an audience. Parahuman spectators. Whomever Dinah is working with, they are well-equipped.

"You don't have to say it aloud," Dinah adds, "You can write some of it down." She slides a pen and paper forward. "Just enough to give us an idea as to what you wrote."

I look down at the paper, pondering the blankness. If I want anyone other than Scion to read my work, then I would need to restart immediately. After all it had taken me years of continuous effort to actually finish.

I pick up the pen. A high-quality sort. Smooth, but light, it must've been made from ivory. An extravagance, was it meant as a bribe? A display of power? As a pen, it would do. I press the tip to the paper.

But there is nowhere for it go.

I stare at the paper. How did I begin the story again? Was it with a description of ice cream? Sweet vanilla melting on my tongue as the sweat cooled off my back. Was the beginning sprung from the stray thought, my idle observation, 'it's getting late'? What came first, my glance at the clock or the click of the television as Emma said 'just one more episode'?

My thoughts jumble together, details and moments dogpiled, nothing coming to the surface. Could I even remember the first word I used?

The pen inches forward. Forming a letter, the strokes slow and deliberate. The pen lifts and I move to the next, like a blind man finding his way down the stairs. I was only retreading old ground, so why did it feel so unfamiliar? Why didn't it make any sense.

I stop after the first couple lines and I feel a wetness on my cheeks.

It's gibberish.

Letters, symbols, hieroglyphs or just scrawled lines thrown together in a mess. English letters mixed with Russian ones, some layered on top of each other, an 'e' super-imposed over 折. Impossible to translate. Nonsense.

I had been in a dream. Never realizing, never knowing. It had been hopeless from the very beginning. There was never any chance of anyone understanding me.

A hand reaches over the tabletop, resting on mine, stilling my pen. Dinah gives me a look of... of...

Sympathy? Pity? Fear? Say it! Just say it!

"It's okay," Dinah says quietly, "You can just tell me if you need to."

I shake my head so hard the tears come flying off. Saying it and writing it are two different things. There's-there's no way.

"Just the general idea. Please, I'd like to know."

I know there's more to it than that. Dinah doesn’t care forme. She and her friends have ulterior motives, the desire is laced in every syllable. But as I look up at her, her smile small and reserved, I dare to hope.

My throat aches, long parched.

"Mom," I say, turning inward, hands clutching myself.

"Dad." My fingers tighten, nails digging into my skin.

"Emma." The skin breaks and blood starts to leak.

I let go and I look up at Dinah.

"Alone."

Dinah falls over. Her head thunking against the floor. I gape, did I really just kill her?

I spring out of the chair and go to her body. Lifting her head, unsure of what to do beyond that. The only thing in my head were words, first aid had never been necessary. Before I can bungle a revival attempt, Dinah wakes with a groan, her eyes fluttering open. They're bloodshot.

"I'm, I'm fine," she says.

I look at her, feeling sick. I want to clench my fists and scream, but Dinah occupies my hands. I had only _summarized_ my story. The barest, faintest hint and this is what it did to people.

No wonder Scion had run away.

Before the second wave of tears can flood again, a hand touches my cheek. Dinah pushes a lock of my hair back, clearing my face so that her eyes can meet mine.

"It's only the first draft," she says.

I stare at her, my mouth slowly parting open. Then I laugh. A head-tilting hysterical laugh.

A first draft! As if there would be a second! The thought of inflicting my writing on the world again makes my stomach turn. More than 'want' or 'must', writing is a state of existence for me. But when that existence prevented anyone from approaching, than what was the point?

Better to just end it all. Go out while I still had some semblance of sanity left.

"Scion didn't leave because he hated your work," Dinah speaks up, "He left because he _learned_ from it."

I ignore her, looking around the room, trying to find something to use. It's maddeningly empty. Maybe if I stand on the chair and leap off, hope my head smashes against the table corner at just the right angle. A painful sounding plan, but one that could work.

"He also lost someone. He, in his own way, was grieving."

Could I break the table leg off? File the tip against the floor and stab myself through the throat? It doesn't have to be perfectly sharp, just jagged enough to puncture skin. Flesh can be so easy to cut.

"You helped him. You were the only one who could. You could speak his language and write in it."

Stupid, I don't need any elaborate tools, no set-up at all. If I just run at the wall head-first, smash myself against it until the white walls turn red that would be enough. I close my eyes, biting my lip, I hope that would be enough.

"Taylor."

I blink, looking down at Dinah.

"If you focused, really tried, you could write in a human language. One that I or anyone else can understand. You could reach people the way you did Scion. No brainwashing, no mind control. Just you."

Information floods my mind. The stuttered pacing of her words, the tremor, the scratch of her throat, just a little hoarse. It all filtered through my power and the details sprang up as glaring as the stars until I had a galaxy of data to choose from.

I am useful. An important tool for future plans. Dinah and her employers need me. They would lie if it served them. So is Dinah telling the truth? Do I really want to know for certain?

I blink the stars away.

Slowly, I get to my feet, carefully detaching myself from Dinah. I return to the table, taking my seat and pull the pen and paper towards me. Only a single sheet, not enough.

"Paper," I say and Dinah jumps to her feet. I don't watch her go.

Inspiration has struck, I know what I want to write. The pen hovers over the sheet. Even if no one reads it, even if no one likes it, even if it only hurts. This is what I am. From there, I can only hope.

The pen presses down and I start with the first word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it for A Word. First and foremost, thank you all for reading.
> 
> Second, to those who kept up with this story since the first chapter, thank you for your patience. I know I took a very long time getting this story to its conclusion and I'm sorry I held out on releasing the chapters even when I had them written and done with. It's a bit unorthodox, but I felt it was necessary for a number of reasons. The mundane reason is that I was very busy with life at the time and I knew I wouldn't be able to keep up a regular update schedule. The more literary reason is that I felt the story came off as weak when broken up in pieces. I was already playing around with a disjointed narrative and adding a week's worth of time in between each chapter would just make the fractures worse. So again, I'm sorry this story took so long to finish, but in the end, I think it's better for it.
> 
> Thanks again for reading!


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